The Paramour
by whereSilencebegins
Summary: my Draco-is-a-prostitute-and-Harry-pays-him-for-sex story...only Draco has no idea it's Harry at all. H/D


_A new story for all my lovely readers! After this I will be working on some of the chaptered fics that I sort of abandoned so stay tuned! Thanks an I hope you all enjoy!_

* * *

_The Paramour_

He was back again.

The man whose real name Draco did not know, though he had been meeting with him for over a year. The man whose face Draco had never seen though he had kissed him more than a thousand times. The man who had held him what felt like countless times even though Draco had no idea who he could be.

Like every Friday afternoon, the man stood in the entryway of Draco's apartment, his presence fairly taking up the entire space and the spell that he used to keep his identity hidden undulating like an angry thunderstorm. It was a clever spell too, one Draco at his most determined could not unravel despite how many times he'd tried.

And they had spent many nights in each other's company.

Because this man, this one whose name Draco did not know and whose face he had never seen, had bought him like the whore he was.

"Prompt, as always," he murmured as he greeted his guest and he watched as his voice made the shadowy-mist spell that kept the other man hidden swirl tightly before settling again. When he had first looked at it, it was sick making but now he was used to it. He also thought it was interesting that the man was never late, nor was he ever early. He arrived exactly at seven every Friday evening, his huge presence filling Draco's flat and reminding the blond what he really was. How he was still alive.

That he was nothing more than a prostitute.

.oooo.

It was because of the war. That was what he used to think in the very beginning, when it was at its worst.

It.

His life.

The disaster it crumbled into the moment the Dark Lord came back and took over. It began with the fear and then hopeless despair that sucked him deeper and deeper into the darkness he was unable to escape. Though he found he couldn't become a murderer, he had been forced to become everything else. Dark spells filled his dreams, the screams of the people they were used on echoing, resonating, eating at his sanity. It was much too late when he realized he had chosen the wrong side, family or not, and terror darkened his world until it seemed like he was trying to see through a veil of black.

And then the side of the Light won the war.

Secretly, he had prayed for such an ending. He could not even fathom what his life would become if the Dark Lord had won. Surely worse than it was now. At least, that was what he told himself when he was starving and standing at a street corner in hopes that someone would take him to a hotel room for an hour and give him a little money. Enough to feed himself the next day.

Because after the war, his life took a turn for the worse.

After the Ministry imprisoned his father, they took away the Manor and all of the Malfoy bank accounts. The devastation killed his mother within two months, turning her into a wrath before she simply passed away, leaving her son alone in the tiny hovel they were forced to live in. He had buried her in the small garden behind the house because he was unable to afford the funeral that she deserved.

Left with no money and no family, Draco quickly realized he needed to find a job or he would certainly perish. Riddled with grief but refusing to give up, he first tried Wizarding locations that might need an errand boy or such. But each time he was turned away because everyone recognized the platinum blond hair and his sharp features. No one wanted an ex-Death Eater to work for them, no matter how desperate they were to fill a position. When he had exhausted all of his options, he swallowed what was left of his pride, and his prejudices, and made his way into the Muggle world. That at least there no one would know his name. Or his past.

Little did he realize that his luck would be even worse there. Because he had no working experience and had no idea what a "phone number" was when filling out little slips of paper called applications, the Muggles just smiled at him and said they would get back to him. But they never did. Whatever a phone number was, it was clearly important. He had taken to stealing his food from horrible metal boxes the Muggles threw their garbage into and sleeping in ally ways, keeping to the shadows in order to stay hidden.

That was how he met Kitty.

Kitty's real name was David but he wouldn't respond to that. He took the role of a male prostitute very seriously, always wearing clothes that were much too small for him and his hair always dyed in wild colors. His face was actually quite pretty, too pretty Draco often thought, but he ruined it with his over-dramatics and his whiny voice. Despite that, though, he seemed to have taken a liking to Draco, whom he found shivering in a doorway one night, crying into his knees.

Kitty took the blond in with nary a hesitation, bundling him into his run-down flat and feeding him bread and soups until Draco was no longer in danger of wasting away. He wanted to resist the kindness, hating to have to rely on a Muggle. But even he was able to see that he would have died out on the London streets if Kitty had not seen him and offered him kindness.

At first Draco had been horrified at the idea of selling his body for money. He was inexperienced as far as sex went, his only knowledge the frantic hand jobs shared in secluded niches. He'd barely had time to discover that he preferred the surer touch of another boy before the war descended upon the world and made it impossible for anyone to just be normal teenagers. To just be normal _any_thing.

But Kitty, though he worked every night and pulled at least once every time he went out, it wasn't enough to support both of them in that rundown little flat. "Tough times" his rescuer said sometimes under his breath as he warmed up bland soup in odd cylinder cans for both of them to eat for dinner and then would shrug a boney shoulder. Draco got over any lingering phobia he had of Muggles when he was scrounging up his meals from their garbage and he found himself becoming quickly fond of Kitty. And he was worried. He saw the dark circles under the wide eyes that could barely be hidden by layers of makeup and the way the other boy's bones seemed to poke at the insides of his skin.

Saw it and didn't like it.

Then he would look in the mirror and see that he was even worse off. His face was marred with hunger and suffering and grief. To save them both, did he have it in him to put himself out on the streets and let someone take his body for their own cardinal pleasure just so he could eat? He'd done some pretty horrible things during the war in order to keep himself safe. What was he willing to do now? Not just for himself but for the only friend he had left in the world.

Kitty taught him everything he knew.

Appearance, attitude, what to say, when to say it, how to give a bow job, hand job, rimming, 69, taking and receiving, and more. Kitty shocked Draco with how much he actually knew and how well he performed it all. He'd balked when he learned the other boy wanted to show him first hand how it was done but relented in the face of reason.

"Honey," Kitty said with his hand already working the blond's belt open and his face uncomfortably close, "All the theory in the world won't help you when you have a stranger's hard dick in your face and a rent you need to pay. Short of taking your virginity, trust me. You _want_ me to show you how its' done," It made a twisted sort of sense, he supposed, though Draco had no idea what his virginity had to do with anything. A question that was blown from his mind until much later when he got his breath back and he thought he might be able to try walking soon.

"Why is it important that you don't take my virginity," he murmured to the dark ceiling, the tiny radio tucked away in the corner cranking out some horrible Muggle music that reminded him too much of the Weird Sisters for comfort. Kitty, who was leaning against the side of their ratty couch, rolled his pale blue eyes and snorted.

"Because your virginity is worth at least two thousand," it was stated with a nonchalance that had Draco sitting up so quickly he saw stars.

"Two thousand _pounds_?" he yelped, earning him a strange look from his friend. Kitty's hair was a strange hue that hovered between blue and purple which made him look at least three years younger than his twenty-three. Draco suspected that was one of the reasons why he did it. From what Kitty told him, the younger they looked, the more clients they could pull. Within reason, of course.

"Sure. It's a rarity theses days, trust me," Kitty sneered and fished about in his torn jeans to pull out a crumpled carton of cigarettes, "The word 'virgin' mean's you've been untouched, untainted by another's filth. They want to be the one who takes it from you, want to be the one who defiles you, makes you as dirty as the rest of us," just for a moment, a flash of resentment darkened Kitty's eyes and Draco had felt hurt. He didn't want the other boy to resent him. Then thin lips still faintly stained with lipstick dragged on the lit cigarette and the resentment was gone.

Instead there had been nothing but clinical interest in Kitty's gaze.

"Though I suspect for you, we can probably get double that. You are quite gorgeous, especially if we make you up," Draco had stopped thinking of himself as good looking a long time ago and he never felt less so in that moment.

A feeling that he would be unable to shake for the following three years.

Kitty, having been working the streets for almost two years before Draco came along, seemed to know just about everyone in London's dark underbelly. But there was only one person who they could go through, _safely_ anyway, and that was Kitty's pimp.

"My Woman," Kitty called her.

Sloan Baker.

Draco hated her on sight and he had observed people enough to know that the feeling was mutual. She wasn't a big woman but she was terrifying nonetheless. Shorter than him by a good six inches, she wore wicked heels that gave her at least four of those inches back and her personality added the rest. Her eyes were like two chips of frozen coal and her face was deceivingly pretty. Kitty told him, in a hushed voice despite being in the privacy of their flat, that she had once been a prostitute too until one of her punters had gotten too rough and she ripped his balls off with a single skilled twist of her hand. Whether it was true or not, Draco didn't know but he knew to be wary anyway. He knew just how dangerous it could be, underestimating someone.

Despite their shared dislike of each other, Sloan treated Draco like the rest of her sixteen boys and twenty some-odd girls. Just another piece of meat that brought in the cash. He suspected she was secretly pleased because his face was the prettiest of the lot. At least, that's what Kitty said, anyway. Pretty Draco. Pretty pretty. Oh, how he hated that word.

His "pretty" face and the fact that he'd never had sex with someone did indeed fetch him quite a bit of money. Four thousand, six hundred and forty, to be exact. Even when Sloan took twenty percent of it, it was still a lot more Muggle money than he had seen in his entire life (he refused to think about how pitiful a sum that really was compared to the fortune his family used to have).

The way he had gotten it, though…that was something he refused to dwell on. Ever.

The only thing he would acknowledge was that it was beyond painful and humiliating and the man had not cared one whit that it had been Draco's first time. In fact, he was pretty sure the bastard had gotten off on his pain. Where Sloan had found him he didn't know and he never saw the man again, for which he was grateful. Two hours was all it had taken for Draco Malfoy to fall completely.

Somehow he had managed to drag himself back to Kitty's flat where he threw up several times, his body aching and his heart damaged beyond repair. When Kitty found him in the early hours of the morning, he coaxed Draco into his lumpy little mattress, cleaned him up with gentle, sympathetic hands and then curled around the blond. It was only then he had realized he was shivering uncontrollably but he wasn't sure if he welcomed the touch of another man. Lips had pressed against his cheek, so unlike the stranger that had taken him just hours before, before Kitty whispered in his ear, "It gets better, love. I promise it does."

And it did get better. It took a while but then Draco stopped feeling the pain and kept in mind what it was like to eat properly. The money he had made that first night allowed them to splurge on food and clothes and they were even able to get a better mattress; a much bigger one that he and Kitty shared because they still couldn't quite afford heat. But it was better. The money made it better. Fuck, the money was everything. Intoxicating. Like a drug, giving him a pathetic sense of accomplishment every time one of his clients dumped it on the hotel bedside table.

It got better because it _had_ to get better.

He learned quickly what kind of men to look for; which ones he could get more out of and which ones who would get violent. It became almost easy. Sort of like a game and sex nothing more than a job. Kitty became his partner who often shared a corner with him and they garnered a reputation for themselves. Unconquerable. Or, at least as unconquerable as a prostitute could be. Sometimes the men bought them both at once but if not, they met back at the flat to eat, share a cigarette and laugh about the ones they had pulled that day. It went on like this for nearly a year. Kitty and his Dragon, as Draco was now called, making a living the only way they could.

It was almost good, too.

Then Draco's two worlds collided and everything changed.

The day he was summoned back to the Ministry.

It was a yearly check-in. That's what the owl said that had landed on the windowsill early in the morning and woke him from a fitful sleep. Every pardoned Death Eater was to report to the Ministry and prove that they had kept their nose clean for the past year. In so many words. Looking at Kitty's sleeping face, Draco felt his world shift. He had almost allowed himself to forget he was a wizard. He had almost forgotten the most fundamental part of himself. That he had magic. This life that he had taken on, that he had been forced into, it was so real and raw and ugly that he had lost sight of the beauty that was still left to him. Well, sort of. Not that he had a wand with which to perform magic.

Something tight and painful had clawed up his throat as he read the letter for the third time, eyes barely able to make out the letters for the shaking of his hands. He was the only who had been pardoned that bore the Mark. Yet what choice did he have but to go?

Draco didn't tell Kitty where he was going, obviously. He didn't tell Kitty anything at all. How could he? The owl was long gone by the time the other man woke up and the letter ash in the bin. After so long without being around magic, he could still feel the tingle of it upon his fingertips where he'd touched the parchment when he held it to the lighter. Just a yearly check-in. That's what they said.

That was all.

And it was, at least on the surface. Now that both he and Kitty were pulling just about every night, money came easier. Sloan was pleased with them, though she didn't show it, and didn't give them a hard time anymore. It allowed him to sneak away the day after he got the letter to a thrift store around the block that sold second-hand suits. The quality was nowhere near what he had been used to in his previous life but now it was a luxury and he felt almost like himself when he walked through London's streets to the guest entrance of the Ministry of Magic. Just a check-in. Just for them to make sure that he was staying out of trouble.

Draco forgot to be indignant in the face of his jangling nerves. He forgot that he should be angry because he didn't have a wand with which to cause trouble and that they had taken everything they possibly could from him already. He forgot what it was like to be _him_. Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black-Malfoy, pureblood wizard who deserved his place in the Wizarding world like any other person born with magic. In the year that he had been struggling to survive and living off the earnings he got from selling himself to anyone with the inclination and the money, he had become an entirely different person.

The Ministry was quiet at the time of day his appointment was set at, everyone still working diligently at their desks before lunch rolled around. It was a small mercy but a welcome one and he had almost allowed himself to think he would be in and out with minimal fuss.

Draco had forgotten who worked at the Ministry. He had forgotten a lot of things, it seemed.

"Draco Malfoy here, as requested," he kept his voice as bland as possible when he was shown to the office on the fourth floor, Auror division, Trainee section. A full-fledged Auror undoubtedly had better things to do with their time than worry about one pitiful ex-Death Eater who was worth very little these days. What he hadn't counted on was the person who swiveled around in his chair to face him, green eyes huge behind familiar glasses and lips pulled up in a smile Draco had never seen before.

"Hullo, Malfoy," Potter said and Draco wished very much he had been sitting down. At the very least, he wouldn't feel so much like a troll, gaping moronically at the dark haired man behind the desk.

"Potter?" he'd finally manage to gasp, shock melting away into stark cold realization, "It was you! You were the one who sent that owl, not the Ministry!" the lack of guilt on Potter's face confirmed it and finally the delayed rage funneled up through his blood, making his hands shake and his breath run short.

"It was my idea," the other man admitted in a soft, placating voice, "I still needed to get Ministry approval," Draco took a deep breath and then another one before abandoning the effort to remain calm.

"How dare you?" he hissed, leaning over the small desk and hating the way those brilliant green eyes didn't even flicker, "Haven't you lot done enough to me? Huh? Now I have to come in like a fucking _criminal_ to _check in_ so that you can _make sure I'm not harming anyone_?" he could feel spittle on his lip and the blood pounding angrily in his temples made him dizzy. Yet Potter simply stared at him, face composed and gaze steady.

"That was just an excuse to get you here," the other man murmured finally, when Draco's ragged breathing took up all of the space in the office and all at once the fight went out of him. They stared at each other for a long moment before Potter sighed and pulled open a drawer in his desk to pull out a long, thin box and placed it on the cluttered desk.

Draco stared dumbly at it, feeling stupid and blank. Because he knew a wand box when he saw one.

"What…what is that?" he breathed, clenching his hands in the fabric of his pants in order to keep from reaching out and touching the box. It was calling to him, though, a low hum that seemed to resonate within his mind. Potter seemed to sense it for the tiniest smile curled at the corner of his full lips.

"The reason why I called you here. I've been trying to find you for months but you disappeared off the face of the earth. To be honest, I'm surprised you showed up at all," Draco gave him an absent sneer but his eyes were drawn instantly back to the box. He knew what was in that box. He _wanted_ what was in that box quite badly.

"Are you ever going to get to the point," he managed to snap, "or am I going to have to guess what you're trying to say," he caught the darkening of those brilliant eyes and felt a stab satisfaction.

"Take the damn box, Malfoy," Potter growled and the blond feigned nonchalance as he reached slowly across the desk and took the box. There was no way to hide the fact that his hands were trembling and he had a feeling that the other man noticed the eagerness with which he pulled the top off the box. Then his breath caught in his throat because there, nestled in the velvet lining, was a very familiar wand.

His wand.

The one he had gotten when he was eleven from Olivanders, which had been good company for nearly seven years before Potter had stolen right from his hand.

There was a little buzz when his fingers touched the dark wood and he held back the tortured sound that threatened to burst forth from his mouth. His _wand_. It was in his hand, warm to the touch and clearly welcoming even though Potter had won it off of him. How he had missed it, having it in his hands, his magic tingling in his palm and the tips of his fingers. And it was indeed still his, responding to him, recognizing him as its master.

"Why…?" he stopped, took a breath and suddenly found himself clinging to his composure that threatened to crack under the force of his emotions. Potter sighed and pushed away from his desk, his chair hitting the desk crammed in behind him. Draco couldn't take his eyes from the sight of his wand in his hand after so long. Hawthorn and unicorn hair.

"It's yours again," Potter said, clasping his hands restlessly behind his back while his hair mimicked a black halo puffed around his head, "It wasn't for a while when I…after I took it from you. It's allegiance changed and I became its master," he cleared his throat, the memory of that day shining in his clear gaze, Draco's lip turned down at the way the other man's hair stood on end when he rubbed a hand through it, "I've studied a little bit of wand lore after the war and…did you know you can release a won wand with your own will? It's a little bit like speaking to the Sorting Hat only the wand can't speak back, obviously. But they can _hear_ their master's will and if the will is strong enough, it will obey," by the time he was finished, Potter's face was a animated, clearly fascinated and Draco wondered if the man had gone into the right career.

"So you just…told the wand you no longer needed it and _voila la_, you are no longer the master?" Draco said slowly, as if to a particularly thick child, containing his disbelief and annoyance behind contempt, "It doesn't work that way, Potter. They can only be won over," Potter lifted a shoulder and gestured to the wand Draco was holding. It still hummed silently against his fingertips.

"Does that feel like a wand whose allegiance is to another wizard?" the other man asked softly and Draco hated that he was right. With one last wary glare, he lifted the wand and sure enough, a trail of blazing gold sparks lit the cramped, dingy little office. This time he was unable to hide what he felt and he was sure the mingling of astonishment and stupid, uncontrollable joy. Potter was smiling when the blond looked up again, "I know," and for a moment Draco almost returned the smile. Then he cleared his throat and looked away, hating the gratitude that was welling up inside his throat.

He had his magic back and it was all thanks to Harry Potter.

"So that's why you had me come here?" he asked slowly after a heavy pause, "To give the wand back?" there was a flicker of something unidentifiable in the other man's eyes before Potter lifted one shoulder and gave him a lopsided grin.

"Seems that way," he answered, voice light, "Like I said, I couldn't find you though I've been looking for a while and this was the last thing I could think of. It needed to go back to its rightful owner," the hawthorn wand felt warm and smooth and something unwound in Draco's chest, a tightness that had been nigh on choking him since he had discovered there were more important, darker things in the world than not using magic. Oh, how he had missed this feeling.

For the first time in nearly a year, he felt like a wizard again.

"It was not by choice that I was unable to be found," Draco said at length, straightening and holding his newly-reclaimed wand at his side. Their eyes met and held, curiosity flickering in the wide green gaze.

"I knew that," Potter murmured, eyebrows knitting, "I knew it was not by choice," Draco wanted to scream. If the other man had _known_ that, why hadn't he done anything before, when the help would have mattered? It was too late now, though he could sense that Potter would no doubt try more if he knew what kind of help the blond needed. Not that he would have accepted, of course. There was no way he could leave the life he led now. Even if Sloan wouldn't hunt him down and murder him for taking off without a word, he couldn't leave Kitty behind.

"Am I free to go, Potter?" he gritted, chin lifted and posture so stiff, his spine ached. The dark head dipped and the intensity of those green eyes pressed against him like solid walls.

"What happened to you, Draco? Where did you go?" he spoke with so much sympathy. Why did Potter think that pity was enough? Why did he think he had the right to feel it at all? After all, he had been the leader of the winning side. Draco was just a failed lackey from the losing. Their worlds were much too far apart now for them to be able to feel anything but contempt for each other.

"I went where I must in order to survive. And that is all you need to know," he nodded his bright head at the other man and saw the close of their conversation, "Thank you for my wand, Potter. Have a fantastic life," Draco did not look back when he walked from the office nor when he stepped out of the Ministry onto the dreary London street. He might have a wand now, _his_ wand, the one that had always been meant for him, but that didn't mean he was any more a part of that world than he was before.

And he told himself that he was content with it.

Yet if Draco thought that was going to be the last change his life was going to take, he was in for a rude awakening.

The presence of his wand, for one, made things both easier and harder. On one hand, he _had his wand back_. And it was _his_, not someone else's that had been given to as a temporary fix. He still couldn't believe Potter was able to release his hold over it but it was unmistakably Draco's.

But.

Kitty was a Muggle and they lived in an all Muggle building. He had very few opportunities in which to actually _use_ his magic. A single carelessly cast spell would not give him away, but he would undeniably get charged with performing magic presence of a Muggle. The fine would undoubtedly be hefty and one he could never afford to pay. If he were to perform magic, he needed to be very careful.

There was no way he could resist it, though. Simple Cleaning Charms behind the privacy of the closed bathroom door after seeing a client went a long way. A small Heating Charm in the middle of the night when he woke up shivering from the cold. A Healing spell after a particularly rough pull. It just made his life so much easier and he hadn't realized how much he had missed it until he had it back. The temptation to use it all the time was strong but luckily he had been forced to learn self-restraint when he was young.

He would try to forget for two more long years that he owed Potter a great deal more than just the return of his wand and its allegiance. And this was not the only change that would take place.

Five weeks after his visit to the Ministry, Draco acquired a new client that would become a fixture in his life.

The man who hid his body and face behind a storm.

The man had blown into his life like a thundercloud nearly two years ago. His appearance, or the lack thereof, had shocked Draco, who had long since thought he could never be taken aback by anything anymore. He'd plenty of clients who'd disguised themselves for the sake of anonymity; not magically of course but Muggles could be quite inventive when they wished to be. And he got all types, men from every profession and walk of life. It was indiscriminate and he was amused when he learned how shocked the outside world would be if they knew what kind of people were showing up to fuck a male prostitute.

But none of them were like the Night Man, as Draco had taken to calling him.

It was the perfect disguise, too. Impenetrable. He knew because he had tried, without success, to work his way through the spell. It wrapped around the stranger like a localized storm of shadow, hiding every last piece of him and making it almost sick inducing to look at. Oh, Draco could touch the man through the spell. It would be rather counter productive if the person paying for sex couldn't be touched. It was like reaching through lukewarm steam to touch someone across a dinner table. Kissing him tasted faintly like fire and magic and his skin held a hint of smoke.

Draco had been worried at first, unsure how he was to pleasure this man without being able to see him. He had attempted to convince the strange man to take it off, as once they were in the room, his identity was no longer in danger. But he'd refused, stating in a deep, steady voice that the spell would in no way hinder them. So what choice did Draco have? The Night Man wasn't threatening in anyway, his manners unfailingly polite and his demeanor calm. Which was rare as clients often thought of the prostitutes as _less_.

And, oh, the sex!

It had gotten, by then, to the point where Draco no longer enjoyed sex. It was impersonal, being paid for it, and most of the time his clients weren't even thinking of him. He often couldn't even get hard let alone come and if he did, it was just a fizzle of pleasant release. He was letting strangers use his body for their own purposes just so he could survive on the bit of money they gave him in return. He didn't _like_ it but he was good at it and that was what counted.

But this man, the man who wore the night sky like a cloak, he was spectacular.

He didn't demand anything, despite the fact that he was the one paying, like nearly all of the others did. When his fingers touched or his lips took or his body moved, it was always as if he was asking a question first. _May I?_ Every time it was like that. _May I have you? May I touch you here? May I kiss you there?_ Draco had never experienced anything like that before. He was _their_ whore for an hour or two and they were allowed to do just about anything they wanted. But not this man.

The Night Man was also one of the only clients Draco had that was really interested in kissing just for the sake of kissing. It was something the blond still enjoyed. Amazingly good. Devastatingly good. So good, in fact, he had Draco hard and clinging rather pathetically to strong, square shoulders in order to remain standing within moments. That tongue, so hot, surging so deep, touching every last corner of his mouth. When they had broken apart, he had been dizzy and made a joke in an attempt to pull his senses back together.

"I thought I was supposed to be the professional here?" he'd expected the stranger to laugh but instead the man had growled low in his throat that sent a shock of arousal through the blond before grabbing Draco and throwing him bodily on the bed.

What had followed had been the most intense fuck he'd had in his entire life.

The man had been relentless and, at times, brutal in his taking. But he didn't _just_ take. He gave just as much. The touches, the kisses, the absolute abandon that left Draco positively aching for more. It was almost too much to handle all at once. Those hands that felt large and strong were indiscriminate where they touched, drawing pleasure from him he didn't even know he could feel. Usually, the others wanted him to do a lot of the work or no work at all. But never like that. Never to the point where he was sure he would lose his mind. He was swept away by it. And by the time they were done, Draco had been unraveled by the man's deep, slow thrusts and the way pulses of electric pleasure surged to his very fingertips.

Somehow, the man made him come twice before coming even once himself, leaving Draco a shattered wreck. He'd been forced to cancel his next two appointments that night, unable to concentrate on very much at all.

That was the first time.

The man came every week, same time, same day. Draco learned not to book other appointments that day; the sex never got any less intense. If the man smelled someone else on him or knew that he'd been with someone previous, the sex would be angry, jealously radiating through the stormy cloak of his disguise. Draco wanted to tell the man that he belonged to no one and everyone and that there was no room between them for possessiveness.

Yet, for some reason, he never could. When he was with the Night Man, he felt, just for an hour or two, like someone actually wanted him for _him_ and not simply for the sex he could give. He didn't feel treasured, exactly, but needed. Like this man needed him for their couple of hours week and needed Draco to need him back. He started to crave those days and the incredible fuck, or three, that came with them.

For a year this kept on, becoming a familiar pattern and Draco thought more than once that maybe he was almost happy.

Then, as it did, his life took another strange turn.

Draco had always known what kind of men preferred Kitty. He was delicate and flamboyant, often wearing very few clothes and a faked innocence around him like a cloak. He did it on purpose as he had found it was the most successful way for him to attract clients. Yet the _types_ of men his act drew were not always the best sort of men. Not just the common sleazy or desperate or just bored. No, the ones that often bought their way into bed with Kitty were the ones that wanted to hurt others, to break them, to see them bruised and crying and begging for mercy. Draco got only one or two of the same over the year he had been working the streets but he knew much better how to deal with them. After all, the Death Eaters had been far less kind to the son of the man who had earned the disfavor of the Dark Lord.

At least three days out of the week Kitty would come home with bruises on his wrists and body, and cuts upon his skin. He still smiled, was still bright and kind but it was hard to miss the pain in his pale eyes. It was difficult to witness but Draco had learned quickly that trying to intervene only seemed to make matters worse. So instead he made sure he was there for Kitty when he came home to take care of him. Muggle painkillers took up an ugly chunk of their income. Once Draco had gotten his wand back, he would whisper a spell or two to ease his friend's pain.

Almost a year after the Night Man started coming to Draco, Kitty didn't come home one night. It was a Thursday night, or early Friday morning, late in March and Draco knew enough of his flat-mate's habits to start worrying when five o'clock rolled around and Kitty wasn't back yet. He waited only an hour longer before giving up and dashing down to the building's only phone to ring Sloan. He grew even more worried when she sprang into action right away instead of displaying unconcern like he expected.

"I may not be the warmest person, Little Draco," she murmured into the phone receiver just before she hung up, "But you are all my boys and girls and I will take care of what's mine," it was the gentlest he'd ever heard her and he had hung up the phone with a lump blocking his throat. Maybe she didn't dislike him as much as he thought after all. She did protect them as much as she could and made sure the clients that took them would not drug them or hurt them beyond what was reasonable.

Draco had waited in the dingy hall of that flat building, alternating between pacing and sitting anxiously on the near-by steps. He had forgotten all about his appointment that night. He wanted to run out and look for his friend but Sloan was the only one who knew where they took their clients any given night. No private residences; it was an unbreakable rule. But there were several hotels they used on a regular basis scattered throughout the city. It would take him much longer to find Kitty. So he waited.

It was mid-afternoon by the time the phone rang for him and he almost dropped it in his scramble to answer it.

Kitty had been found in the back alley of the hotel he had taken his client to, bleeding from an open knife wound on his side and on the brink of death. No one had witnessed the attack, though the hotel staff, who knew Kitty by name, were as helpful as they could be. He'd taken a new client that day and it had been determined that the man had be targeting male prostitutes for several years. Buying their services then dragging their bodies to the garbage bins. Kitty was only one in a long string of cases that had more often than not ended in murder. They had to wait for Kitty to wake up to fill in the blanks but the story was bone chilling.

The suspected assailant had long since disappeared.

Kitty woke up late Saturday night and by then Draco had realized this was the first time in a year he had not gone to meet his Night Man. It was, in fact, the first time he had missed an appointment at all. But he had been more concerned for his friend than a man whose face he had never seen; whose face he hadn't been _allowed_ to see. He tried to imagine continuing on with his life as it was without the buoying, cheerful presence of Kitty by his side and he couldn't.

Kitty was the one who rescued him off the streets. He'd saved Draco's life and now Kitty's had almost ended. Just like that a fission of fear had sizzled through his chest and it was all he could do not to break apart in its wake. As he sat beside his friend and fought off despair, he was forced to realize that he once again had no one in his life.

A hand caught his fingers and he looked up at the pale blue depths of Kitty's eyes to find warmth and understanding.

"This isn't the end, Dragon," even his voice, raspy from the drugs and a long sleep, was full and steady, "I'll be with you. I just think it's time for me to move on from this life style. It's been too much for some time now but I was afraid of the change I would need to make in myself. I hope you'll understand," Draco had squeezed the hand in his and ducked his head.

"I understand," and he did. This life they led wasn't an easy one to maintain for long. Kitty, or David as he had asked to be called, was twenty-four and he'd been selling himself out since he was seventeen. It was a long time to be living such a rough life. Draco wondered if he could do the same. Yet for some reason, he found himself thinking of the Night Man and he realized he couldn't give that up. The man was the only wizard Draco had contact with and he didn't want to lose that tenuous tie it gave him to the world he grew up in.

And, he found, he couldn't give up the man himself. It was stupid and probably dangerous but he was past denying the connection they shared. They talked a surprising amount, though the man never gave away anything about himself. Draco never spoke of his dark story either. That didn't matter. They had gotten to know each other rather well without the past or names turning their meetings sour.

Beyond that, he refused to examine his feelings on the matter. He couldn't afford to.

What he didn't realize was that the wish his heart had made would get granted without him having been aware of the wish in the first place.

Sloan called him a week after David woke up in the hospital and told him to meet her at the club they frequented. He had spent that week with David as he recovered, canceling all of his appointments with clients as they talked about the options David had so he could move on with his life. He told Draco that he'd always wanted to be a writer and was looking for classes he could take so he could improve his skill. Draco found himself oddly proud of his friend and tried to be as encouraging as possible. That their flat and the corner they used to occupy together while working were lonely without David's bright personality meant nothing.

Sloan looked as sharp and as hard as she always did. A glass of clear liquor sat in front of her on the private table she had reserved for them, a little pocket of calm in the riot of the pulsing club scene. He slid into the booth with a bubble of trepidation trapped in his chest.

"You haven't been working," was Sloan's greeting, voice flat and eyes sharp. He felt a stab of guilt but he kept himself from bowing his head and hunching his shoulders. Working had indeed fallen by the wayside as he spent his time with the only friend he had left. He'd lost all of the others in the war one way or another and he was unwilling to let this last friendship to slip away.

"No I haven't," he murmured in response, suddenly feeling very tired. Tired of the life he had been given, tired of having all of his choices made for him.

"Do you want to stop like David? No one would think less of you if you did," it was almost like she was telling him it was better to quit. The ache for what he'd had as a child, the comfort, the money, the ease, almost overwhelmed him for a moment. Biting his lip, he looked away from the steely-eyed gaze.

"I don't know what else I would _do_, if not this," he gestured restlessly at the club around them. Sloan took a sip from her glass and never lost her direct stare.

"In this business, it is never hard to find replacements," Draco gave her a dry twist of his lips and she tipped her head forward in acknowledgement.

"Well, that's comforting," he said, the same dryness coloring his voice. One of her shoulders lifted in response.

"Quite," her eyes never changed and Draco decided that it made her rather fearsome, "But I always make sure that none of my boys and girls end up homeless because they couldn't find another job. There are places where my name holds a little weight. I could get you a respectable job if you'd like," Draco looked down at his hands that were clenched in his lap. It was the perfect opportunity to leave this life behind. He wouldn't have to sell his body to strangers, have their hands and lips and sweat on him. Wouldn't have to wonder if he was going to catch something or not. But…

"If not…" Sloan's voice broke through his silent battle as he tried not to think about the Night Man, "A client of yours has contacted me with a proposition that might do well for you to think about," he looked at her stony expression and felt something tug painfully at the back of his mind.

"Which client?" he managed to ask instead of demand but his heart was racing for some inexplicable reason and his hands trembled despite being folded together. Her eyes were keen and he suspected they had seen right through him to the desperation bursting in his chest.

First rule of being a prostitute; never get attached to client. Never need them, never want them, never fall in love with them.

_Too late_, he thought.

"His name his Christopher Cline. Though I think I've heard you refer to him as the Night Man?" Draco's heart stuttered to a jarring halt before picking up again, redoubling its frantic beat. He had to take a deep breath before he could speak again.

"What is his proposition?" he rasped and ignored the sharp sting of Sloan's gaze as it snapped against his skin. If it was from his Night Man, Draco had a feeling he already knew how he would answer.

So when she told him, he could do nothing but accept.

.oooo.

_Dear Draco,_

_I will have spoken to Miss Garth by the time you get this letter to make sure what I'm about to request is even possible. If it is not, I will try another approach but something needs to change. It must. _

_At the moment, I am unable to tell you the specific reasons why. Just know that there are reasons and they will be reveled in due time. The request is this: That you give up all other clients, stop conducting business as you have been; on the corner, with your agent and at the hotels. I will be your only client from the moment you agree, if you do, to the time our contract is terminated. You will, of course, be given enough money to more than make up the loss of income you will have upon dropping the rest of your clients. On top of that, I will provide you with a flat of your choosing and will make sure you will live comfortably. _

_Do not mistake my request; I am not asking this because I want to keep you as a pet or anything of the sort. In the time we've spent together, I've come to respect you as an equal. I find you interesting, intelligent and witty and, though I understand I pay you to be so, passionate. If I could explain all of my reasons for this, I fear rejection, though I find myself at the moment curiously hopeful you will accept. Please know that I am sincere and I hope to receive a reply from you soon. _

_Your friend,_

_Christopher_

.ooo.

Here he was, a little more than a year later, standing in the doorway of his own flat and watching the storm surge around a man whose name he instinctively knew wasn't Christopher Cline at all.

He had accepted the proposition, of course. How could he not? And, for the first time since the beginning of the Dark Lord's rise to power, he was almost comfortable with his life. The biggest conflict concerning him at the moment was the identity of his weekly guest. Every time he stopped wondering who the man _could_ be, he found his curiosity stirred all the brighter.

The other man didn't acknowledge his greeting. He simply stepped into the flat and closed the door behind him. The breeze stirred the cloak of shadows and Draco felt his heartbeat speed up. It always did when this time came. He would probably never understand the motives behind what the Night Man had done for him but Draco couldn't deny his own reasons for accepting. It wasn't really about the money anymore and maybe only a little bit about the sex. He knew and didn't know this man and the things that he _did_, he was inexplicably drawn to in a way he had only been drawn to one other person in his life.

Though he had long become used to the billowing magic storm around his guest, it still made him shiver as the man advanced on him.

"You had another guest today," it wasn't a question and Draco felt the corners of his mouth turn down in a confused frown. In fact, it sounded an awful lot like a jealous accusation. It wasn't new, this jealousy thing. It was one of the reasons he knew that the man had demanded he become Draco's exclusive client. The accusation, however, was unexpected.

"I…David was here for lunch," he answered, suddenly nervous. David still came around at least three times a week and had met the Night Man on several occasions. Draco didn't think the man minded their friendship.

"I know the scent of his cologne," the voice was a low rumble, dangerous and deep and it was all Draco could do not to jump when his back bumped against the wall. He hadn't even realized he had been backing up. Whirling shadows loomed over him, "There was someone else here," he hated the flash of fear that trembled in the pit of his stomach but he managed not to drop his chin or pull his eyes away. Yet before he could open his mouth to make a denial, he realized that he had indeed had someone else here not an hour before. A former client, in fact, and knew that the reason he had forgotten was because he had been so anxious for the arrival of the man standing threateningly over him now.

Who was seething and jealous and so close, the spell that disguised him licked hungrily at Draco's skin.

"It…" he swallowed dryly then looked away, trying to gather his puny courage about him, "Yes, he…he was a former client," There was a low growl that vibrated through the room and he reached a quick yet shaky hand out to press against a familiar chest that was tight with tension, "Wait, I didn't send for him or anything like that. He was one of the more persistent ones when I…when I accepted your request. I don't know how he found me since no one but David and Sloan knows where I went," He could feel the sharp breaths the other man was taking, could feel it in the hot breath washing over his face and in the tightness in the muscle under his hand.

"So you just let him in?" the sharpness of the question nearly made him wince, each word bitten off so that jagged edges of them very nearly cut his skin. He licked his lips and wondered if the man's eyes followed the action.

"I didn't. He pushed his way in and I didn't have my wand on me. I thought… when I answered the door, I thought it was you," he hated the way his own voice sounded weak and shivery. It seemed it had an affect on the other man, though, because his hands were suddenly curled almost painfully around Draco's upper arms, dragging him closer.

"Did he touch you?" a hiss of breath and a tightening of strong fingers. Fear had already melted into desire and the shaking of his limbs was anticipation.

"No," he breathed, aching, "no…" and anything he might have said after was stolen away by a fierce kiss. A kiss that sent the tangy taste of saliva and magic to the back of his throat and made his knees nearly weak enough to buckle. He didn't know when a single touch from this man could make his brain switch off but it had already become an addiction. More than their joining during sex, it was his kiss that turned Draco's blood into lava. The lips that covered his own were full and soft, sucking first his top lip then the bottom. Their teeth clicked together when he opened his mouth but the curl of a hot tongue against the back of them soothed the abrupt pain.

Draco wasn't ashamed to admit that he clung to broad shoulders as the other man burned a path into his mouth with his tongue. Draco had memorized the shape of this mouth, the taste and the feel of it until he was almost sure he knew what this man looked like despite the fact that he'd never seen his face. And then that wicked tongue rubbed against the roof of his mouth and his knees did buckle, the sensation making him whimper.

"You're mine," the Night Man hissed against his flushed cheek as his wide hands helped keep him upright, "I bought you, I made you mine, and no one else can touch you," Draco thought about protesting that no one had touched him but the leg between his was grinding against the heavy weight of his bollocks and the sudden realization that he was brutally hard swept all the words from his mind.

Besides, what the other man said was only the truth. Draco had put himself up for sale. The Night Man just happened to be the highest bidder.

"Your bed. Now," the iron in that strong voice sent shivers down his spine and made his pants feel even more constricting around his cock. The ache was sweet and he realized he was shaking as he to walked to his bedroom. Every step pulled his trousers too tight and he was practically panting by the time he reached the doorway. The presence of the man behind him loomed but he didn't lay a hand on Draco until he was beside the bed. He could feel his teeth beginning to chatter and he clenched them against his desire. Shadows flickered around him, solidifying enough that as they touched him, they tugged upon his clothes. If he wasn't so hard, he would have been amused by the spell taking on its castor's desire to see Draco naked.

"Please," he heard himself whispering, unconsciously leaning his body towards the pillar of shadows darkening the middle of the room. He _wanted_ to be naked. He wanted those hidden fingers and lips all over his flushed skin. But the Night Man remained where he was, presence eating up the entire room.

"Tell me who owns you," his voice was a harsh whip and Draco breathed sharply through his nose, a desperate release of desire. Fuck, he needed it now. He'd been thinking of nothing but this all day and now he was being teased. He could feel his arse aching, empty, the need to be filled nearly overwhelming. Indeed he was owned, completely and utterly, "Tell me who you belong to," and Draco was beyond caring.

"You do," he moaned, taking a few unsteady steps toward the other man, "I'm entirely yours," Draco had learned a lot of things from prostituting, including the silky skill of telling a man exactly what he wanted to hear. But he'd never meant it. Only for this man did he speak the truth.

The next thing he knew, he was being tossed rather roughly onto his bed and a form swathed in shadow was crawling over him. Not for the first time he missed being able to see any sort of expression on the man's face. He wanted to know if it was hunger that would burn in his gaze or something maybe a little bit more. By the way the little curls of shadowy smoke yanked and licked at his limbs, he rather thought it was more. Then there was a whispered spell and all his clothes disappeared with a puff of cool air.

"Say it again," the man whispered, hovering over Draco's prone form. The very air vibrated with their mutual need. Hard. He was so _hard_. But he managed to lift the words from the vise of his throat to his lips.

"Yours….yours…"

The sex that followed was violent and the most intense he'd ever had.

Those big hands practically tore at his skin, leaving scores and scratches almost everywhere they touched. When they kissed, he was sure that every time his lips would split and blood would smear between them. It didn't happen but the roughness was on the verge of shattering him.

And he loved it.

He loved the way the other man held his wrists over his head as he bit his way down Draco's chest. He loved the indents those sharp teeth left in his skin; the way they pulled at chunks of it and worried at his aching nipples. He loved the way the hard sharpness of the bites sent ripples of pleasure zipping along his nerve endings. It pulled desperate gasps and small, broken moans past his throat that only seemed to strengthen the other man's assault. The flurry of magic that disguised the Night Man no longer separated them but curled around them both, making it feel like they were caught inside of a storm.

A storm that touched upon Draco's bare skin like tiny fingers made from lightning. The sensation added to the bright, heady suction of lips and tongue, teeth and fingers, leaving him feeling very nearly unraveled. Sparks of pleasure burst behind his eyelids and when he managed to lift them open, he wished that the brilliance burning through him could be complemented by the sight of a face and a hungry gaze staring back at him.

Hands, burning like brands against his skin, stroked down his ribs then reached under him to grab his arse, making him arch with a sharp breath into the touch. Hot breath curled into his navel, followed by an even hotter tongue. It was one of his favorite places, especially when a chin that was scratchy with stubble bumped against the sensitive tip of his cock straining against his belly.

"Please," he heard himself beg into the cool dark air of the bedroom, "Oh, Merlin, _please_," the teasing was too much. He wanted more than the tongue dipping into the creases where his thighs met his torso and the inside hollows of his legs. It meant that every breath touched upon the curve of his dick and the soft skin of his bollocks and it _wasn't enough_. The scream of frustration caught in his throat and he was unaware of his fingers pulling on tangled strands of hair.

"What do you want?" the deep voice was rough and shaky with lust, mirroring the way strong fingers stroked and kneaded at Draco's hips and thighs. He shuddered when the other man's wrist accidentally brushed against the tip of his cock. Fuck, he just needed to be touched! Even his arse felt painfully empty, clenching and squeezing against air. All he could think about was that thick, heavy cock he knew was hard and ready for him; needed it in him so badly he could practically taste it.

He wanted it in his hand, in his mouth, in, _in_.

Yet still the Night Man hovered over him, only touching with slow, steady hands.

"You…" Draco managed, reaching into the heart of the shadow spell to where he knew that lovely cock was, "You. In me. Please," His words seemed to light something within the other man because his head immediately dove down, swallowing Draco's entire length in one go.

He might have screamed, as he thought the sound that lingered in the air was his own voice. He couldn't be sure, though, because the sudden sheath of hot, wet tightness around his cock made the world around him fizzle into insignificance. It was _good_, oh so good. Good enough to steal his breath and make his entire body tremble. It was so rare that he got this and, if he did, it was perfunctory. Something that had to be done before the fucking. But there was none of that this time.

No, this was pleasure for the pure sake of it. Pleasure in burning spirals that made his thighs tremble and his lungs burn and his belly tighten. Sheets caught at his toes when he curled them and his spine arched and twisted. He almost physically couldn't handle the assault; the way that hot tongue touched upon all the right places, the wetness, the heat, hands tugging at his bollocks, his arse…_in_, oh, those fingers were _in_ him now, opening, pressing, curling. He was gasping and crying and then…

Draco didn't even have time to lament the disappearance of the mouth wrapped around his cock. He didn't even have time to breathe. Because a hot, thick cock was pushing its way inside of him and he couldn't hold on anymore.

It was like flying but like falling too, and it seemed to last forever. Pleasure gripped him in claws that seemed to rip through his entire body and he heard the rush of it in his ears, the rush that made up his entire world for several long, beautiful moments.

In that half-conscious moment as his orgasm finally died and he slipped under the lingering blanket of bliss, he hear his name whispered into his ear, filled with something he didn't have the cognizance to decipher.

"Draco…"

.oooo.

When Draco opened his eyes again, the room was still dark and his entire body felt heavy. For a long moment he laid there, face half-buried into his pillow and feeling ashamed of himself for passing out after his orgasm. He'd never done _that_ before and he could only imagine what the Night Man must be thinking now. In a surge of shame, he wondered if the other man had even gotten a chance to finish. In his pendulum swing between enjoying the lingering effects of euphoria and self-recrimination, it took him a long moment to realize that he wasn't alone.

With a sharp breath, Draco twisted around to find the Night Man was indeed still with him, reclining on the bed beside him. The shadows of his disguise looked oddly sluggish and lifeless.

"You're still here?" Draco blurted then felt stupid for stating the obvious. The other man seemed to follow his thoughts for he shifted on the bed and did something that looked like a shrug, if the way the shadows slithering about him were any indication.

"As you can see," was the soft reply, his voice oddly muted. It was strange; Draco had never heard him speak in such a manner before, "Would you like me to leave?" It was asked carefully but there was something hidden behind the question that sounded both wary and sad. Draco sat up with a sharp breath, panic fluttering through him as he reached out a hand as if that would keep the other man there with him. The Night Man never stayed the night. Ever. It was understood that once midnight chimed softly through the flat, Draco would be alone.

"No. No, don't leave," there was something strange in the air between them, as if the flattening shadows of the other man's disguise hid something other than his true identity. There was a brief, heavy silence in which Draco tucked his legs against his chest and watched the way the spell began to thin and fray. If he held his breath and strained his eyes, he could see the way the skin of a bare leg or arm showed through for the shortest of moments.

"I need…to tell you something before this spell fades," the other man's voice broke the silence like an ax swung against frail glass, the urgency in it prickling against Draco's skin, "I didn't…I wasn't going to this, you know. This," a hand emerged from the shadows, as strong and as lovely as he had always thought it would be, gesturing vaguely at the space between them.

"Come to me, you mean?" Draco asked softly, needing clarification. The hand disappeared a moment later and he had to make himself stop remembering what it felt like on his skin. There was a flicker of affirmation from the other man.

"I thought about you, after…the war," Draco started, something tightening his chest. This man had known the blond before. Before they met as prostitute and client. Maybe even before the war. He felt a flicker of misgiving but told himself to hear the other man out before drawing away. Something was about to change, though, and it filled him with sickening dread. Change had never been a good thing for him, "but you had disappeared from the Wizarding world. I looked but…" the shadows frayed further and now full patches of skin were visible for more than just a second or two. At one point, Draco realized that he was seeing black hair instead of the spell before the shadows rolled back in.

The sight of it tugged on his memories but he couldn't organize them enough to make the connection. The back of his throat clicked when he swallowed.

"But when I saw you again…I had to know. I had to know what happened to you. So I followed you," Draco felt like he should be putting the pieces together now but instead he just felt blank. He obviously knew this person from his past but who did he have contact with after the end of the war?

It had been….

"I didn't…come up with this spell because I didn't want other people not recognize me," Draco scuttled back as the rest of the spell disintegrated, holding the sheets to his chest and staring with wide eyes at the man in his bed.

"You didn't want me to know," Draco breathed and those green, green eyes that he used to know so very well blinked back at him.

"Yeah," Harry Potter breathed, face pale as he watched the blond for signs of rejection.

Oh, he thought about throwing him out. _Harry Potter_ had been in his bed every week for the past two years. Paying for it, no less, though Draco wasn't sure it would have been better any other way. And he had _loved_ having him there, his fingers, his breath, his voice, his touch and, damn it, his glorious cock. The way those brilliant eyes tracked his every breath with Potter's entire heart beating desperately in their depths, Draco knew that he could reject him now and could very possibly break the other man.

And yet…

"Why?" he breathed, "Why did you do it?" his fingers hurt from clutching the sheet to his chest and he wanted to pretend like they weren't shaking.

"That day, when I gave your wand back, I followed you…" though his gaze was still steady, Draco noticed the way his fingers twiddled with a scrap of sheet. That was when it sunk in that he was looking at Potter naked (strong chest, broad shoulders, pale thighs, soft curve of his cock) and he felt an uncontrollable shiver work up his spine. It might be Potter but he was still the same man that could make Draco beg and moan and come every single time they fucked.

"But why?" he demanded, voice thick and heavy. He noticed Potter flinch and told himself that he had _wanted_ to know who it was behind the spell of shadows. Now he almost wished he had never found out.

"I needed to know," those green eyes finally flickered away and Draco watched the other man shift so that his raised leg gave him some modicum of modesty, "I saw you in the Ministry after a year of not having heard anything from you and…I don't know. I found my feet following you," This time, Draco felt more than a flicker of shame, the kind he had battled with when he first started prostituting. But he also felt the sharp bite of anger, deep and cutting.

"So, what, you thought you'd have a go at Draco Malfoy, pathetic Death Eater scum and whore?" his voice rang out sharply, the words sounding wrong and hateful as they burned their way past his lips. But he was too angry to examine them more carefully. And now he was standing, legs braced and body trembling.

Potter didn't answer right away, his eyes gone black in the dim light of the bedroom and Draco felt a flicker of doubt which he promptly squashed. He needed to stay angry because he was afraid of giving in. Even though he wanted to. The other man slowly extracted himself from the bed and walked towards the blond, only stopping when Draco threw up a hand.

"I thought, in sixth year, that the reason why I followed you was because you were doing something awful," Draco felt himself sneer.

"I was," he snarled, hating that they had to be naked as they did this because he hated staring at Potter and thinking him beautiful, "What does that have to do with anything?" fathomless those eyes were, now so difficult to read. The dark head tipped to the side and Draco refused to think of it as charming.

"I was worried about you. We were all still just kids and you seemed so…lost. I wanted to care but at the time, I didn't know how. I didn't realize that until…later. That I was rooting for you," frustrated, Draco crossed his arms over his chest, thinking about that horrible, nightmarish year.

"Damn it, Potter! How does worry become…" he waved between them in a facsimile of the gesture the other man had used a little while ago, "This!" there was a charged pause before Potter dropped his head and ran his fingers through his messy hair.

"I don't know, Draco," he murmured, looking oddly small and helpless in the faint light spilling in through the window. How had he never noticed before that the Night Man was shorter than him? "I saw you on that street corner, picking up strange men and I…I just…" the other man swallowed and his eyes were full and earnest when they met Draco's, "I needed those men to be me,"

All at once, the fight left him and he sagged, feeling strangely defeated and blank. The silence between them stretched. Draco felt cold. Exposed.

"Where were you when I needed you?" he whispered, overwhelmed and thinking about those months after the war when he went to sleep every night terrified he would never see the morning. There was a soft exhalation of breath and then warm hands gently curled around his arms, his back, his shoulders, his neck. Potter's eyes looked like the glow of emeralds fallen like rain upon soft spring grass.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, "I know it's not much, but I'm here now," and when he offered up no other excuse, Draco let him closer, let him press his warm, bare skin against his own. It felt comfortable. Familiar. And he wondered, as he stood in Harry Potter's arms, what would happen now. Surely things couldn't continue as they had.

Finally the other man released him and he felt a moment of disorientation. The Night Man was gone, replaced by someone he had shared a rivalry and something darker with in the past. But he wondered if it was so bad that this man turned out to be none other than Harry Potter. Strange, but it almost felt like this could be the _only_ outcome. This was right in a way he couldn't identify and wasn't sure he wanted to. It was enough that it was there.

Then he realized the other man was collecting his clothes from the floor near the bed and Draco's indecision turned into anxiety.

"Are you leaving?" he rasped, feeling hot and prickly and bereft. Only a few moments ago, he'd been so angry with this man. But now…

Now the thought of him disappearing from Draco's life made his chest ache.

"I thought…perhaps it would be better," Potter said, still naked and glorious as he peered at Draco through the gloom, the clothes clenched in his fist. Draco licked his lips, cleared his throat and decided.

"Stay," he whispered, shivering when their eyes met, "Please,"

So Potter, with a slow, curling smile lighting up his face, dropped his clothes and did as Draco asked.

He stayed.

.fin.

_Not going to mark this as complete because there is a little continuation I want to write for this. _


End file.
